All This and Heaven Too
by honeymoonlights
Summary: Love has been declared an official disease, and the government-mandated treatment for it is supposed to keep everyone safe. Having already been cured, Regina shouldn't have anything to worry about. But then she meets Robin. / for the LoveFromOQ Valentine's Day exchange.


Originally posted on ao3 for the LoveFromOQ Valentine's Day Exchange; just dusting off this account after a good minute. Based off the book trilogy Delirium by Lauren Oliver.

 _and you understand now why they lost their minds, and fought the wars;  
and why i've spent my whole life trying to put it into words… (—you're in love.)_

 _..._

Regina still cries sometimes. The anniversary of her father's death is one of those times.

She wonders if that's something that would upset him. Anyone else would find it alarming, perhaps even enough to report her. But her father had always been a bit more lenient about these things than anyone else, despite the surgical procedure he'd had that was supposed to make him feel otherwise.

It was twenty years before her father had been born when the government had identified love as an official disease. An umbrella disorder under which many other disorders had been reclassified as symptoms, like depression, anxiety, insomnia. And by the time her father had turned eighteen a cure had been all but perfected to keep the public safe against love.

It'd become a mandatory operation — a surgery on the brain, performed on the spot of the head just behind the ear. It was a clean procedure by the time her father had gotten it, leaving behind nothing but three small dots as evidence. A scar most people wore proudly as the mark against _amor deliria nervosa_.

The wind picks up as Regina stares out at the tides, stinging her tear-stained cheeks and making a mess of her hair. She takes a quick glance around to make sure no one's there to witness her crying. But she knows she's safe; it's too cold to be at the beach. She used to complain whenever her father would drag her out here during temperatures like this, claiming the cold air was refreshing for the mind.

 _And detrimental to the immune system_ , she would argue. Then he'd wrap an arm around her — unusual for Cureds, to show any sort of physical affection — and make some sort of teasing compliment about how good a doctor she is. Usually followed by some ridiculous quip of him having learned not to fear everything in nature just because it might pose a danger to him.

The longer Regina has thought about that, the deeper it seems to ring true.

Her father had never outwardly supported the cause against the deliria — not the way most everyone else does. He didn't cringe away from talk of the deliria the way most people around Regina do. He had secret stashes of banned books and music that Regina had rifled through on more than one occasion when she was younger. The bulk of it had been made well before the official classification of the disease, and the books glorified it, their authors unaware. And the music was full of haunting melodies belting the ugly effects of the deliria that still send a shiver down Regina's spine whenever she thinks about them.

She never knew why her father held on to those items. It wasn't safe by any means, and had anyone else ever come across the stashes Regina's sure he would've been accused of being a Sympathizer, a resister to the fight against the deliria.

She brings a hand up behind her ear, rubbing at her procedural scar. She'd gotten the cure two months after her eighteenth birthday. Procedures before the age of eighteen aren't generally allowed — too many dire side-effects can occur. Though doctors are working hard to make the cure safe for everyone, for now people have to wait until at least eighteen — sometimes older, depending on results of a mandatory physical — unless under extreme circumstances.

Regina used to fear getting the cure when she was younger, more than contracting the deliria itself (though she'd never admit that to anyone). Though she'd never fallen victim of the deliria, her anxiety before the cure had been through the roof, and it had taken everything in her to suppress the panic that had welled up in her the day of her procedure.

She remembers one of the nurses helping her that day had caught a stray tear before Regina could wipe it away, and had tried to ease her worries. "After this, you won't have reasons to cry again. You'll be safe."

Regina scoffs now at the memory, wiping away another tear. Out in the cold, deserted beach, with nothing but sad memories to keep her company, she wonders what she'd done to warrant being so unfortunate.

She also can't help but wonder what that nurse's misconception ultimately means for her safety.

…

 _i. (it kills you both when you have it, and when you don't.)_

Her first thought about the new nurse on duty is that he's gorgeous — and she's immediately alarmed by it. It's not the first time she's had that thought about a person, but it is the first time it's felt anything but objective. The first time since having been cured, anyway.

He's not very tall. On the days she wears heels (which is more often than not), she's almost eye-level with him. She thinks this makes things more difficult for her. It gives her a better view of his blue eyes, and the dimples that often peak out when he speaks or smiles (and he smiles a lot, more than anyone else around here).

The tingle she'd felt shoot up her arm when he'd shaken her hand and introduced himself as Robin was one she'd had trouble shaking off for the rest of the day.

She avoids him at first, irritated at the way his gaze leaves a warm feeling in her chest. She's dismissive, and doesn't let herself spend more time than she needs to in his immediate proximity. She cuts any conversations with him short at the first opportunity. She doesn't meet his eyes when he speaks to her, opting to busy herself with whatever's close by. One day he catches her without anything around for her to toy with, and she finds herself mentally connecting the dots of his procedural scar as he goes over a form with her.

He calls her out on her elusiveness one day.

"I'm cured, you know," he comments out of the blue while she fills out a prescription form.

She looks up in confusion as he leans an elbow on the counter next to her. "What?"

He smirks at her, the appearance of his dimples causing an unwanted distraction. "Ever since I started here, you've been avoiding me like we're a pair of teenagers. So I just wanted to let you know that I am cured, and you have nothing to worry about."

She fights down a blush, bristling at his accusation, even though it's more or less true. She bites back, "I'm perfectly aware."

"I don't have any other disease either, for the record," he quips before she can say anything else. "I was cleared before being allowed to work here." His smirk doesn't let up.

"I'm sure you have a clean bill of health." She glares at him. "And I'm not avoiding you," she lies. She rips the prescription form off its pack with more force than necessary.

"Could've fooled me," he mutters as she moves around him to get back to her patient's room.

She throws another glare over her shoulder. "Well you'll have to excuse me if I have better things to do here than stand around and chat with you."

She leaves before he can respond, unwilling to give him a chance to point out that her hasty retreat helps his point more than hers.

Determined to prove him wrong, Regina stops dodging him after that. Robin notices, she can tell by the amusement in the smiles he gives her for the following week, but he thankfully doesn't comment on it. He takes full advantage of the end of her evasiveness however, engaging her in more conversations. And she wills her heartbeat to steady when he's standing too close, or when his voice lowers to throw a joke or a light tease in her direction.

She watches him, in spite of herself. He has a warm demeanor, one the kids he tends to pick up on immediately. He doesn't cross the line of propriety, but he tends to near it more often than not; comments here and there that one might consider more playful than than what's considered normal. He's drawn a giggle or two out of children before — but aside from a sideways glance from uninterested parents, no one seems to notice anything particularly out of the ordinary. And it occurs to Regina more than once that the only reason she's noticed it herself is because she pays him too much attention.

And he's noticed, she thinks. Or perhaps, he also just pays her more attention than he should. In any case, he takes any opportunity he can to talk to her. From often needless information on the children he's prepped for her to see, to offhand comments about the weather, not a day goes by that he doesn't attempt a conversation while they work together.

She thinks it should bother her — she's never been one to have patience for those on the chattery side, her low tolerance for the secretary Ruby being a good example. And as it is, her encounters with Robin do leave her annoyed — but not so much with him. Instead she's irritated at how _un_ bothered she is by his presence, at how she might even like it.

She's too aware of him when he's near. Aware enough to become familiarized with the timbre of his voice, and the shade of blue his eyes are. Aware enough to know that he smells of pine trees, and that the bottom circle of his procedural scar is a just a little bit crooked (and she wonders where he got his procedure; were they careless about it?). She feels his absence more than she thinks she should on his days off, and it leaves her feeling a little off-kilter going those days without talking to him. She's too aware.

She's treating a little boy with an ear infection one day, a particularly bad one that she can only assume worsened due to negligence. Her guess is all but proven when Robin exits the examination room and tells her that the reason the boy wasn't brought in sooner was because his mother had a short business trip to make. The lack of interest from the mother in question is apparent when Regina enters the room and barely receives a reply to her hello.

It's one of the most common side-effects of the Cure — for people to be unable to form a parental attachment to their children. It's not new for Regina to come across parents who aren't particularly worried for the well-being of the children they bring in. There are extreme cases, of course, ones she's allowed to report if the child's life seems to be in imminent danger. But those are rare, and despite the unwanted tug in her heart at seeing this little boy feeling so obviously miserable, she knows there's not much she can do besides prescribe him his antibiotics.

She can't help casually asking for assurance from his mother that the boy will be monitored and given his medicine, however. She's told that the housekeeper will be put in charge of administering the boy's medication, but the answer doesn't do much to relieve the tightening of Regina's chest as she clears them both to leave.

She fills a paper cup with water she doesn't think she's gonna drink, trying to buy herself time to better compose herself.

"I would assume the housekeeper will be diligent about the medicine," she hears Robin lightly say. She looks up to see him reach for a paper cup of his own as he continues, "If only to make sure she keeps her job."

"I'm sure he'll be fine." She tries to school her face, but the way he looks at her tells her she doesn't succeed.

He gives her a smile. "He seemed like a trooper," he agrees. "I think I even saw a bit of a smile when Ruby handed him his lollipop in the waiting area."

The corners of Regina's mouth twitch up despite herself at the notion, and the invisible weight on her chest lightens up a little. It's replaced with a different form of anxiety at Robin's next words, however.

His smile fades, and he studies her for a moment before softly declaring, "You care about these children." There's a certain weight to his words that Regina can't discern, but it leaves her feeling uneasy.

She stays silent, unsure of how to respond without sounding defensive. Because she suddenly feels defensive — the unidentifiable meaning in his comment has her feeling almost accused. And though she's not exactly sure of what, she's also not sure she can truthfully say she's not guilty.

The corners of Robin's mouth twitch up again. "It's refreshing," he tells her. "At least someone around here is good at their job." He gives her a playful wink.

It doesn't fully ease the anxiety of his earlier implication, but the compliment still warms her. The anxious flip flopping in her stomach takes a lighter tone. Almost like butterflies.


End file.
